


Ambitious

by quigonejinn



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-17 18:49:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10600017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quigonejinn/pseuds/quigonejinn
Summary: "He's old enough to be your father," your roommate says, watching you pull pins from your hair.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is not the cute fic about Asian desert Jedi guardian dads that you're looking for. Sad, horrible things happen, but for Reasons, I am not specifically warning for them. 
> 
> If you are screening for _**triggers**_ , this is _**absolutely not**_ not the fic for you.
> 
> Compliant with Wookiepedia and the stuff about meeting on Espinar, and imprisonment of Vallt, and fleeing to Lah'mu, but not the characterizations from the Catalyst. We all knew that the actress who plays Lyra is 21+ younger than Mads Mikkelson, right? Right.

In the beginning, your life runs smoothly. Cleanly. Easily. How many decisions did you make, Lyra Erso? 

You are born, after all, in the Galactic Republic during its last great decades of peace. Your loving mother is an artist, a profession devalued in some parts of the universe, but treasured on the beauty-loving and rich planet of Aria Prime. You have enough to eat. You receive excellent medical treatment. Your schooling begins at a developmentally-appropriate time, and after a reasonable, but not spectacular academic career, you become a surveyor in the caves of Espinar. A short time after that, in a cave vaulted with crystals, you receive a marriage proposal from the most handsome, most interesting, most brilliant person that you have ever met of any gender or no gender. 

"He's old enough to be your father," your roommate says, watching you pull pins from your hair.

"A really young father," you answer, and smile into the mirror, even though your answer doesn't make sense or actually refute what your roommate said. 

You are twenty one, Lyra; your hair is thick and beautiful, sliding over your shoulder. Love shines from your face.

...

In the next period of your life, you make decisions, but they do not feel difficult. For example, Galen asks you to take his family name. This is the custom on his planet of origin; it is not on yours. After some discussion, though, you agree. It means so much to him; on Aria Prime, the second name is fluid, used to mark stages of life rather than a permanent, underlying identity. So why not? You love him so much. 

Another example: you have always wanted to see the universe. Your work is portable: people all over the universe need professionals with your skills. Your career will take no harm from a short break. Consequently, you put your career on hold and travel with your husband on Corsucant, the greatest of the Core Worlds. 

The two of you begin trying to conceive. 

...

One night, you are dressing for dinner at an expensive restaurant in a fashionable sector: a place to see and be seen. There will be old classmates of Galen's from Brentaal, along with their partners. You sit at your dressing table, and Galen comes to you. After a moment, he says, quietly, that he has just gotten word that a certain person will be attending. 

"For a long time, he was my best friend. He is -- " Galen hesitates. "Ambitious."

"And you aren't?"

You say this without hostility, quietly, even with a little bit of a smile. He blinks, surprised. You have your back to him, but you can see him in the mirror, and you go on looking at him. After a moment, he smiles and acknowledges that you are right: why else are the two of you on Corsucant? How else does a poor boy from an agricultural planet like Grange come up like he has done, and still dream about more? 

"We were both in the Republic Futures Program," Galen says, and then leans back on his hands on the bed. "Things ended because our careers took us to different places. We were once very -- close." 

You go on looking at Galen, quiet and steady. Measuring. 

That night, in your hair, you wear a hairpin made by your mother. Orson Krennic notices, and follows his compliment with a surprising knowledge of contemporary art in general, and the art of Aria Prime in particular. Galen is happy, too, to be among old friends, and laughs: he talks. Drinks. Relaxes. Orson turns out to be slightly younger than Galen, and also handsome and charming and brilliant. You can see why your husband fell in love all those years ago: you can see the ghost on Galen's face when Orson tells the story of how and why they broke up. 

_I'm afraid that Galen was exactly right. He usually is_ , Orson says, smiling first at you, then at Galen. There is a half-sipped glass of apple wine from the second moon of Tyrene in his left hand. _I'm ambitious._

You smile and take your hair down, letting it fall past bare shoulders. You feel old and sophisticated and wise and in control. Experienced.

You are twenty-two. 

...

With Galactic City gleaming through the windows, Orson kisses Galen. Then, Galen kisses you. The three of you are on a couch that is shaped like a half-circle, as the trend on Corsucant is that year. The room is dim, but there is enough light to see: you put your hand on Orson's knee. Galen turns to kiss Orson, who turns your wrist over, running his thumb over your pulse. 

This is before Vallt. 

...

After Vallt, you sit in temporary housing on a trading station in the Markenn Belt, a quarter of the way back to Corsucant. You do not feel wise. You are not in control. The tips of your fingers feel cold; under the dining table, your knees are pressed together to keep them from shaking. The clothes on your back do not belong to you, and the antique datapad in your husband's hands does not belong to him. Upon arrival, two technicians and a nanny droid took Jyn from your arms: a medical check-up. Administration of appropriate vaccines. People from many planets and species passed through the trading station. Jyn is six months old, born on the floor of -- 

Who arranged for the prisoner exchange? Who arranged transport? 

In low orbit on the transport, you looked below and saw a stain in the atmosphere: smoke rising miles high. 

On inquiry, a bored-looking woman in a gray uniform, red-brown hair smooth and pinned up underneath her cap, confirmed that once you and Galen and Jyn were clear, Republic forces moved against the Keep. 

...

Every time the air circulation system starts, you jump. You haven't seen Jyn since they took her: you ask every person who comes into the temporary housing. Where is she? When can you see her? They assure you that Jyn is healthy and happy and well-looked for. You stand, hoping they will take you to her. Instead, a hand on your arm. A downward glance. A query: have you used the pump provided for breast milk? When the pain and humiliation became too much, you relented and sat in the bathroom and pumped, trying to not to hear the noise of the motor, trying not to think of the soft, fluffy top of Jyn's head pressed against you. 

For nine months, you carried her in your body. For six months, for reasons having to do with galactic politics beyond your control, you were locked in a prison cell with a bed and a toilet and a sink and a metal sheet for a mirror. Galen was kept in another part of the prison; the man sitting next to you at the dining table is familiar, but also a stranger. 

In those six months, your daughter became half your world. 

The door opens, and --

...

Years later, you are sitting on the floor of the cabin with Jyn. Outside, the rain is torrential, and to keep her entertained, you show her some of your old surveyor work: you take a length of twine, long as her arm, and tie knots at regular intervals. With your help, she measures every piece of furniture and dimension under the curving roof. Then, you explain how to take a manual bearing against some fixed reference point, and Jyn has just selected her boots, neatly lined against the wall, as her bearing point when the door opens. You look up. 

Galen looks back at you, and you take your hand away from the blaster laid just out of sight. 

...

Years before, temporary housing: the door opens. Orson Krennic enters. 

Your husband puts the datapad down and rises, smiling, hand extended in friendship.

...

You remember being in the bathroom, hands braced on the sink, trying to find the strength to look in the mirror. On the other side of the door, Orson and Galen were talking. A meal cart followed Orson into the room with food that should have made your stomach tighten with hunger: instead, as soon as the covers were lifted, you felt nauseous. You looked at Krennic's face and felt cold in your bones. You tried to pull Galen aside to let him know, but failed. You tried to catch Galen's eye over the dining table, but Orson leaned back in his chair and smiled. 

After the dishes were cleared, the liquor came out. The server slipped away, taking the cart with him, and -- 

How can you explain your deep unease? Even before Krellt, Galen never believed you about the Force. He agreed that the Jedi were connected to it, admitted that they could draw upon it to accomplish miracles, but smiled diplomatically when you insisted that you could feel it. Now, on the other side of the door, your husband is laughing and talking, already a little tipsy. You have suggested three, four times that it has been a long day: every time Orson has demurred, made a small joke about how long it has been since he's seen his friends. Galen is drunk and getting drunker. They are talking, in fact, about you.

Galen says that you are more beautiful than he remembered: Orson laughs and says that you are both beautiful _and_ young, a combination that neither of them can pretend to have anymore. Galen laughs and tells Orson to speak for himself, and Orson smiles back -- the gesture is friendly, but you were looking at looking at Orson's face, studying the light way he held the glass, the light way his eyes moved over to you. Then, Orson made a comment that he had initially been surprised to hear that Galen was married, but once he met you, it was clear why his old friend made the choice.

You have heard this before: Orson has said almost though exact words before, and you had been flattered. Amused. You had laughed and kissed him. Now, though, he is looking directly at you, and it makes you feel suddenly, strangely uncomfortable. Part of it is annoyance that you are being described entirely in terms of your beauty and youth, but there is something else. Another part is the idea that Galen chose you, rather than it having been a mutual choice, two equals choosing each other. Still, though, that doesn't entirely explain your discomfort. Was it the tone? A shift in his voice? There is an extra rank marker on Orson's collar, newly gained for a recent operation, the details of which, he explains, smiling, he is not at liberty to discuss. 

At that point, you excuse yourself from the table and go into the bathroom, where you take a deep breath and square your shoulders. You look in the mirror. You study your face: older than when you had gone into the prison, marked by lines around the eyes and at the mouth, but still familiar. You have your mother's eyes. You and Jyn have the same chin. You survived six months of being imprisoned because your husband was suspected of being a spy; you gave birth on the floor of your prison cell. You kept your daughter alive and healthy. You did whatever it took on Vallt: you can leave the bathroom now and insist, firmly, that Galen has had enough to drink, and that it is time for Orson to leave. 

Then, through the door: "-- your daughter. Remind me. How old is she?"

Galen tells him.

" -- been to the nursery?" 

You go still. Galen's response can't be heard, but you hear Orson's, clear, pleased, confident of getting what he wants.

...

When -- 

...

Four months later, in a misguided attempt to make things right, Galen comes home from work with a surprise guest. You come out into the living room, and there Orson Krennic is, smiling. Holding his arms out at you. Offering you a bottle of apple wine from the second moon of Tyrene. Your body goes numb. From outside yourself, you watch him bend down and extend his free hand. 

Jyn had been getting ready for bed. She is in pajamas; her hair is braided. She comes out from her bedroom and clings to your leg, shy, but also curious. You look down at Jyn's face, then over at Orson Krennic, wearing white, holding his hand palm-out to your daughter, who looks at him, half-afraid, half-curious. Your husband is back by the door, chatting about his day, hanging up his coat and making small talk. 

Orson Krennic smiles at your daughter, then looks up at you. He goes on smiling: his expression does not change. His hand remains extended, palm up, two fingers slightly crooked. 

You look from his hand to Jyn's face. 

Saw Gerrera is a friend that you make. Not Galen. 

...

Are there good times after Vallt? Yes. Even with Galen. One of your most precious memories is on Lah'mu: rain on the domed roof, and Jyn sitting in front of you, her eyes closed and biting her lip in concentration. You are trying to teach her to meditate, and to help her focus, to reach the Force within her. She has your Jedha kyber in her hands, and Galen looks up from the screen he is studying. He looks at her. He looks at you. You smile at him. He smiles at you. 

...

You remember falling in love: in the caves under Espinar when you saw Galen lit from the side while studying a particularly interesting formation. How handsome he looked. How brilliant he seemed. You remember the first time your daughter leaned against you: not because she was an infant and unsteady, but because she was tired, and wanted your comfort and help. 

You remember coming out of the bathroom and seeing Galen and Orson on the couch together.

...

You remember that Orson was smiling. You remember that you looked from his face to Galen's flushed, confused one. There were three glasses, one for Galen that was almost empty, one for Orson, a quarter drunk. A glass poured out for you, gold and full of light: next to it, Orson put his full access station pass. 

You looked from Orson's pass to his face. Those careful eyes were watching you, catching every moment, savoring every breath. Behind him had been a porthole: the station was close enough to show atmospheric smoke, miles high and still rising, a full day later, from the surface of Vallt. 

...

Are you thinking clearly? Do you have a moment to settle into a meditative position and clear your mind and seek guidance from the Force within? 

"Please," you say to Orson. 

His expression doesn't change: he goes on smiling. 

On the other side of him, Galen makes a noise, half-drunk. It could be a word. It could be your name: it could be Orson's. It was clearly an attempt to speak, but his words are blurred. He has gotten much drunker since you went in, and is now smiling broadly and vaguely. Orson is smiling with mouth and eyes. Teeth.

" _Please._ "

Orson makes room on the couch. He shifts Galen a little, and his is expression still pleased, still confident -- his hand out, palm up, two fingers slightly crooked. 

...

In the beginning, Lyra Erso, you did not have to make decisions. In the middle, decisions seemed easy. 

Throughout the years on Lah'mu, you are certain that that Orson Krennic will come. Your husband has doubts, but you know that he will never let Galen go. You know, too, that Orson Krennic will come personally. He would never let someone else have Galen, so you must decide: do you go with Jyn, and increase the likelihood she will make it through the next years of her life safely? Or do you turn back and give your life now, to increase the likelihood she will live to see those years free of Orson Krennic?

In the end, Galen does not expect you to come over the rise. Orson does. 

Until the last moment, you pretend the blaster is a baby: maybe he will be distracted by the idea of you and Galen having conceived another child. He is not distracted. You fire, intending to kill. Unused to holding a blaster on another living human, you miss. Being more familiar, he does not. 

...

To guarantee Jyn the greatest chance of safety, you practiced with her: if her father asked the two of you to hide, the two of you would hide together in a certain cave. If you asked her to hide, she would hide alone, in another cave where you had constructed a further, secret hideaway known only to you, Jyn, and Saw Gerrera. If her father asked, she must pretend that his plan was the only one. But if you asked her to hide, she must go to the place that you had built with her. After a while, you and her father would come. 

In fact, her father would be so surprised to see her, but both of you would hug her. Then, Saw would come, and three of you would live together, happy. She liked Saw, didn't she? He had good stories. So you practiced, again and again: Saw would come, you told her. Saw would take the three of you to be happy together. Yes, there would be stories, but regardless: when Saw came, she must go with him, no matter what. 

When you come over the rise, you see Galen's face. 

For the first time, he realizes what you have done: he understands, finally, the measure of your trust in the Force. Finally, too, he believes what you confessed the morning afterwards on the station, when he woke with a hole in his memory and his infant daughter upset because she was being held too tightly and her guilt-racked mother could not stop crying. 

...

_Help Galen with that, Lyra._

_Take off your shirt, Lyra._

...

In the end -- 

...

In the end, Lyra Erso, you put your crystal around your daughter's neck: another time, another place, a story that intended a different ending with better people. Jyn knows the crystal is precious to you, and she has heard stories about Jedha and the Force, even though most of her memories are from Lah'mu, so it is hard for her to imagine a world where water is rare and precious. You look at Jyn's face, and you study her hair: almost but not quite as long as yours used to be, frizzing in the mid-season humidity. 

You send her to the hiding place that you have kept even from her father, and you tell her to go with Saw. She wants to ask if you will go with her, but you squeeze her shoulders, and she goes. 

Instead, you come over the rise, blaster folded in rough cloth. You draw on Orson Krennic. You trust in the Force. 

You hope your daughter will live and prosper and be happy: failing that, you want her to live. 

...

Who says, Lyra Erso, that you aren't allowed to be _ambitious_?


End file.
